The Miles-Away Club
by L. Alex Greene
Summary: "We both know what kinda judgment I have. Besides, A.R. ain't the type you say no to." There's a twenty-two hour train ride separating New York City from Chicago. A lot can change in that time. Or maybe not. T for language and sexual content. Part 4 of "Petty Crimes."


_**Hour One**_

"Twenty-two fuckin' hours," Lucky grumbles, practically throwing himself into the window seat and glaring at his ticket. "I can't believe it. Why couldn't he fucking—"

"Put us on a plane?" Meyer asks, raising his eyebrows and sitting down next to him.

"Well, _no_," Lucky says. He taps his ticket against the armrest between them. They both know—you don't try to smuggle a hundred dollars' worth of heroin on a plane. Taking a rental car is a bad idea, too—they could get stopped anywhere or leave heroin residue once they turn the thing back in. Taking a train is really the best option. Neither of them have to drive so there's a no risk of one of them falling asleep at the wheel, they can get up and move around so they don't have to be in each others' faces all the time, and compared to airport security, train security is surprisingly lax. All they had to do was pass through a metal detector.

"I don't know, twenty-two hours is a long time."

It would take half as long to drive—Meyer sees the point in that. But he doesn't relish the idea of getting pulled over for speeding and getting caught with that much heroin. Taking a train may not be the fastest way, but it's the safest. "It doesn't really matter now, does it?" Meyer asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tapping the icon for Angry Birds.

Lucky crosses his arms over his chest and sits back in his seat like a petulant child. "Wake me at lunch."

_At least A.R. put us in business-class_, Meyer thinks, slingshotting a black bird right into a stack of blocks. The bird explodes, taking three pigs with it.

* * *

_**Hour Three**_

Shortly after noon, Meyer jostles Lucky awake with a sharp poke with his elbow.

Lucky mutters something sleepily. It dawns on Meyer a moment later that he's speaking Italian.

"Lucky. It's lunch time," he says.

"So get me a fuckin' sandwich, Jesus," Lucky mumbles, keeping his eyes shut.

Meyer rolls his eyes. "I'm not buying you—you know what, never mind? I need a drink anyway."

"Scotch and soda," Lucky says as Meyer stands up and heads to the dinner car.

Once he's there, though, he realizes he's not as hungry as he thought he was. He's not entirely sure why, but he's not comfortable leaving Lucky there by himself. He tries to tell himself he's being ridiculous, that he already scoped out the rest of the occupants of the car and none of them seem very dangerous, but he's not _that_ big of an idiot—just because someone doesn't look dangerous doesn't mean they're not.

So he spends as little time as possible in the dinner car and skips the alcohol. He gets a turkey-and-cheese sandwich for Lucky and a tuna sandwich for himself.

When he gets back to his seat, Lucky finally looks a little more awake.

* * *

_**Hour Nine**_

He doesn't know when he dozed off after lunch—all he remembers is the steady, soothing motion of the train rocketing over the tracks. The next thing he knows, Lucky's shaking his arm.

"Hey, let's go get dinner," he's saying, and Meyer opens his eyes slowly.

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I'm hungry. That sandwich was a fuckin' disappointment."

Meyer has to agree—he can't believe he paid five dollars for each of those matchbooks they tried to pass off as sandwiches. So he drags himself out of his seat, waits for Lucky to do the same, and they head down to the dining car.

It's still early, so there's only a few people there. They order their food at the register—steak for Lucky, chicken for Meyer—and sit down at one of the tables in the dining car. Meyer sets his phone on the table and sits back in his seat.

"So when we actually get to Chicago, what's gonna happen?" Lucky asks after they've sat in silence for a few minutes.

"A.R. said Torrio will be sending someone to pick us up."

"An' that don't sound sketchy to you?"

"I'm not thrilled with it, but A.R. trusts Torrio." _Carolyn doesn't_, a nagging voice at the back of his head says.

"An' you trust A.R.?"

Meyer raises his eyebrows. "_You_ met him three days ago and started working for him less than an hour later."

Lucky smirks. "An' we both know what kinda judgment I have. Besides, he ain't the type you say no to."

Meyer's not sure what that particular comment is supposed to mean, if he means it just the way he says it or if there's some hidden meaning he's missing, but he doesn't get a chance to ask about it. Their food arrives, and for Meyer, who's suddenly starving, it's enough of a distraction.

As he eats, he watches the landscape rocketing by. He thinks they're somewhere in Ohio, but he can't be certain. Maybe Pennsylvania. It all kind of looks the same.

"So are we gonna fuck again, or what?"

Meyer nearly chokes on the bite of chicken he'd unfortunately just taken a moment before. "What, are you serious?" he asks once he finally recovers and Lucky stops laughing like it's the funniest shit he's ever seen in his life.

"Yeah, I'm serious. Why wouldn't I be?"

Meyer can't think of any good reason, mostly because he and Lucky seem to be in complete agreement on this point. Lucky's still grinning at him and Meyer's caught between wanting to punch him and wanting to kiss him.

_A.R.'s going to figure it out_, that voice at the back of his head reminds him. _He knew the first time, too, didn't he?_

_Fuck A.R._, a stronger voice that sounds surprisingly like Lucky's argues. Besides, A.R. knows about their history. Five days away from New York—three days in Chicago bracketed by a day-long train ride both ways—what does he honestly expect to happen? "Alright," Meyer says, hiding his smile with another bite of chicken.

"'Alright'?" Lucky demands, leaning forward in his seat. His half-eaten steak seems forgotten. "That don't sound very enthusiastic. I wasn't _that_ bad, was I?"

He wasn't, but likes messing with Lucky. Besides, Lucky _still_ hasn't returned the wallet he stole from Meyer on Thursday. Meyer's entitled to mess with him a little. _Little bit closer._ "Finish eating," he says calmly.

Lucky blinks at him in shock. "What, are you serious?" he asks, leaning so far forward he's halfway across the tiny table.

_Perfect._ In one smooth motion, Meyer drops his fork, grabs Lucky by the tie, and kisses him. Lucky lets out a surprised squeak and then his hand is at the back of Meyer's head, holding them together, and Meyer smiles against Lucky's mouth. His heart beats a little faster but he pretends it doesn't and he pushes Lucky back an inch or two. "Finish eating," he repeats, letting go of his tie.

Lucky sits back in his seat and blinks for a minute before grinning. "Am I getting' laid later?"

"Yes. Now finish eating."

* * *

_**Hour Ten**_

The most annoying part of the wait is figuring out which compartment in the sleeper cars is theirs. They should have been looking for it earlier instead of going to the lounge car—their room would have afforded them a lot more privacy—but it can't be helped now.

Once they actually find their room, Lucky practically drags him inside and shoves him against the nearest flat surface—the tiny closet that's right next to the door. Meyer doesn't mind being manhandled by Lucky. He's nearly beyond caring anyway, too busy fumbling with the buttons of Lucky's suit jacket. He stumbles sideways, still clinging to Lucky, and ends up nearly falling onto the small sofa that folds out into the bed. Lucky's arm is still around him, though, keeping him standing while his other hand already has Meyer's jacket open and falling from his shoulders. He knows he should actually put their suits away properly considering the amount of cash A.R. dropped to get them so quickly, but Lucky's mouth moves down to his neck and he forgets all about it.

By the time the rest of their clothes come off, Meyer's already realized that the fold-out bed will probably not be getting folded out. He only spares a few seconds to look at it, but it already seems to take an engineering degree and neither he nor Lucky is willing to stop kissing for long enough to figure it out. He just pushes Lucky down onto the sofa and finishes helping him out of his pants.

Lucky's nails rake over his back and he gasps into Meyer's neck. Meyer can't resist scraping his teeth over Lucky's collarbone where no one will see it but him. Lucky's nails tighten on his skin and he lets out a whine, and Meyer breathes, "God, Lucky..."

Lucky exhales sharply. "Charlie," he murmurs back. "Call me Charlie."

Meyer isn't sure what exactly about that prospect affects him so deeply, but suddenly any semblance of control he had is gone and he thrusts into Charlie harder. He's perfect, warm and willing, like they could just melt into each other, and Meyer starts to think Charlie's driving him crazy. When he finally comes, he's gasping Charlie's name, and then Charlie comes, too, holding Meyer close.

Neither of them moves for awhile.

* * *

_**Hour Eleven**_

When Meyer gets out of the tiny shower in their room, Charlie's got the window open a crack, blowing a stream of smoke out. Sometime while Meyer was showering, he'd put their clothes away and wrapped himself in a sheet, but the sofa's still out and Charlie's sitting there with his elbows on the table.

"All done in there?" Charlie asks, and Meyer nods, sitting down opposite him. "Good. I need a shower, too." He finishes off his cigarette and flings it out the window before pushing his pack across the table toward Meyer. "I dunno if you smoke, but you can have one if you want."

He _does_ smoke, just not very often. Still, despite the glaring illegality of smoking on a train, this seems like the perfect time for it—or maybe, rather, it's perfect _because_ of the glaring illegality of it. So while Charlie heads to the shower, Meyer flips open the pack and lights up.

Once he flicks the end out the window, he folds up the table and starts trying to figure out how to pull out the bed. It's actually not as difficult as he initially thought, probably because he was so preoccupied with getting Charlie naked at the time. Within a few minutes, he's able to get the bed out and made up, and even though it's barely eight o'clock, he gets under the blankets and closes his eyes.

A few minutes later, Charlie gets out of the shower, turns off the lights, and crawls in bed next to him.

* * *

_**Hour Fifteen**_

He isn't aware of waking up. He just remembers suddenly being awake, and Charlie murmuring, "Sorry."

"It's fine." Meyer yawns and stretches a bit.

"You trust A.R.?" Charlie asks suddenly, and Meyer blinks.

"Have you even slept?"

"Not yet. Just been thinkin'."

"What time is it?"

Charlie gropes for his watch. "Twelve-seventeen."

Meyer rubs his eyes. "That's a loaded question. I trust him in certain regards—that he'll treat us fairly and not give us a job we're not equipped to handle. I trust him to keep us around while we're still useful. But once we're no longer useful?" Meyer shakes his head. "I don't think he'll have a problem feeding us to the dogs."

Charlie doesn't say anything for a long moment. "Does this feel like a setup to you?"

"It does, but I don't think it is. It doesn't make sense. A.R. doesn't let emotions control him in the first place. Secondly, he just hired you—where's the logic in killing someone on their first job? There isn't." _Unless the setup isn't for _him, a small voice in his head says.

Charlie nods slowly, starting to rub lazy circles into Meyer's back. Meyer feels himself relaxing into Charlie's arms and he decides that, for right now, worrying isn't going to do any good, not when there's literally nothing he can do about it. Also, Charlie's hands on him are distracting all on their own and he's fairly certain Charlie knows it, so he pulls Charlie to him for another kiss and Meyer stops thinking about much of anything for awhile.

* * *

_**Hour Twenty-Two**_

Meyer wakes up first. He's too nervous to eat—not that it shows on his face—so he just brushes his teeth and gets dressed. By the time Charlie wakes up, they have about a half an hour until they arrive in Chicago, so he gets dressed in record time and then spends twenty minutes slicking back his curls.

"You heard from A.R. this mornin'?" Charlie asks, still focusing on his reflection.

"He sent me a text message saying that one of Torrio's people is waiting for us. That's it."

The train slows and Meyer glances out the window to see the station pulling into sight. Charlie sets down his comb and closes his eyes. "I guess it's showtime then. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Meyer stands up and pats down his pockets for their baggage claim stubs. "We should go."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

They're among the first to get off the train and get their bags, and then they finally get a chance to survey the crowd to see who Torrio might have sent. Meyer comes up with a few possible suspects, but it's Charlie who nudges him and surreptitiously points to a young man in a suit with three jagged scars along the left side of his face. He's also holding a sign that reads _ROTHSTEIN_.

"That has to be him," Meyer murmurs, so they walk over to him.

The man catches sight of them approaching and lowers the sign as a muted comprehension dawns across his face.

"Torrio send you?" Charlie asks.

"Yeah. You work for Rothstein?"

"Yeah. Lucky Luciano."

"Meyer Lansky," Meyer adds.

The guy nods, although the barest flicker of irritation crosses his face as he glances at Charlie. "Good to meet you. Al Capone."


End file.
